Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
by C3L35714
Summary: What happened last time she broke her Don't Improvise rule? Warren Peace became her Homecoming date and Will lost his mind. A series of give-and-take moments between Layla, Warren, and tea.
1. How To Start A Fire

_**this is one of my most favorite movies of all time!**_

* * *

Paper Lantern has never been her very favorite restaurant. That position of honor belongs to an excellent vegan café downtown where Layla and her mother are frequent customers. When she's looking for some intelligent conversation or a few extra hands to help with rally preparations, the Jasmine Dragon is her go-to spot. But when the world just gets a little too loud, Paper Lantern is her hideaway, where she can slip by unnoticed in the familiar, dark red ambiance for comfort.

So here she is, even though the company she's currently seeking is neither familiar nor comfortable.

It's been one week since Will agrees to go to Homecoming with Gwen Grayson — one week since Layla finds herself sitting alone on a two-person booth as minutes then hours tick by, in utter denial over where her best friend of so many years is — one week since she places a skinny slip of paper on her bedside table and runs meaningless numbers over in her head: _four, sixteen, five, and forty-nine_.

(And of course, she could put purpose into each digit and come to tissue-thin conclusions, but she doesn't bother.)

And it's been one week minus one day since Layla Williams sits down across from Warren Peace in the school cafeteria.

* * *

She notices him just moments after she walks into the restaurant, her palms suddenly icky, as fear pumps out of her heart and to her very fingertips. Although he gives them the slip towards the end of the week during lunch by simply not being in the cafeteria, she has now had no less than a handful of conversations with him.

The first part of her fear is at least a little more reasonable. Everybody loses control of their powers at some point, but if, say, Zack lost control of his thus-far unseen powers, nobody would notice. Probably.

(And she wants to believe him, and deep down, she knows that she does — it's just harder to defend him when she has no evidence against hallway whispers that say nothing but facts.)

But fire is so utterly wrought with symbolism and danger that...well, she thinks a bit of caution is reasonable, especially after the showdown in the cafeteria that still gives her actual shivers when she thinks about it. The yelling — Warren's yelling — is packed with emotion, bursting at the seams with it, and she's never witnessed anything like it.

The second part of her fear is ridiculous.

(And she knows that, and she feels totally guilty, but so far there is nothing to be done about it.)

Layla hasn't exactly had a very good experience interacting with Sky High, outside of the other Hero Support freshmen — even then, she has yet to garner much more than their scorn, after a couple challenges to what she's confident are accidental slips in Mr. Boy's societally ingrained beliefs. But upperclassmen are another field entirely. Save The Citizen scares her too, even in the dubious safety of the audience. Though he has yet to single her freshman-status out, Warren is a sophomore with two years and a foot of height on her. So.

(And yes, she knows that sophomores are technically still underclassmen, too, but she thinks the learning curve on a flying bus and English classes taught by someone who breathes underwater and has been to Atlantis is steep enough that there is a _huge_ difference between the entering class and everyone else.)

But anyway.

Said sophomore finally comes by, wielding a full water pitcher that drips condensation down onto his wrist tattoos. Layla thinks that it's much easier to talk to him this way, with his hair drawn up so she can actually see the lines of his usually half-lidded eyes.

She smiles at him awkwardly.

He raises an eyebrow at her. Even the slightest motion is impossible to miss; the rest of his face remains immaculately stilled.

"Hi," she says quietly, under the clinking of fork tines.

"You're back," he observes.

"Yeah." They are both quiet for a moment, and then, harshly:

"Well?"

"Excuse me?" For another moment, this one much more laden, he blinks at her.

"May I take your order," he finally says, deadpan and drawling. She flushes.

"Oh. Um. Tea, please. And a number four."

"Jasmine or green."

"Jasmine. Thanks." When he disappears, Layla leans back in her chair and breathes out loudly, wishing she wouldn't feel so frazzled after their every conversation. She refocuses, eyes flicking to the plants scattered around the restaurant. There are a number of fake ones strung up between the lights, but the orchids dotting the tables react to her and straighten up with each passing breath.

* * *

On her way out, later, she has to squeeze by him with a bag of leftovers for her mom. So fast and so quiet that she almost misses it, he tosses a couple short words over his broad shoulders:

"Later, Hippy."

It makes her smile much more than it should, and she thinks that he catches it before she turns away.

* * *

**_winks at Avatar: The Last Airbender for use of its tea shop name!_**


	2. Handle With Caution

_**espionage, baby!**_

* * *

It's nearly freezing outside, especially with the school being so very high up in the clouds. There is some kind of weather-controlling device (or, just as likely, a weather-controlling person) in the school that's meant to keep oxygen in and rain out, but even the walk from the front doors to the front steps had Layla quick-stepping it.

The cafeteria, at least, is much more tolerable than the front lawn. As each day passes into the first quarter, Layla's mixed feelings over the cafeteria continue to jumble themselves up.

On the negative side, it's crammed full of sweaty, messy, rambunctious teenagers and food smells and crass speech.

On the positive side, this is where her friends come together, and where she can hang out with them outside of class.

Also negative: Will's stark and sudden absence from her life is never more obvious than when she sits down and almost leaves an empty seat beside her for him.

Also positive: she gets to see Warren now, so he can ignore them all face-to-face instead of across the hallway or gym (or locker room, according to the boys).

Layla and her friends no longer have to search for an empty table during lunch hour; instead, it's a lowered, glowering head that they seek instead — and it's going pretty well, in her opinion. Where before he used to sit and read in stony silence until Will walked by, Warren stays longer at the table now, even contributing to the conversations with commentary that's alternatively scathing or dryly witty.

It's been a month since she's had any time alone with Warren; her Paper Lantern visits have dwindled for the sake of boundaries, and she only barely managed to point her mom in a different dinner direction yesterday. But Magenta is in the bathroom and Ethan is trying to get an academic appointment with the Hero class's science teacher and she can spot Zack's signature shirt in a long food-line, so she sits quietly and tries to be as unobtrusive as possible.

It's sunk in, now, just how much Warren is sacrificing to hang out with them, but she is Layla Williams and Layla Williams does nothing by halves. It's a fact of life that usually works out pretty well for her, though lately it's been a bit more hit-or-miss. Case in point: what happened last time she broke her Don't Improvise rule? Warren Peace became her Homecoming date and Will lost his mind.

Layla clears her throat. It's just to resettle her own thoughts, but Warren doesn't even blink.

She removes an insulated metal water bottle from her bag and takes a long, bracing sip.

"What's in the cup?"

She almost misses the question — his register is so much deeper than her classmates' — but when she does understand it, she almost drops the bottle.

"It's a tea blend I made this morning," Layla says finally, recovering. "Want some?"

When he just stares at her — it's his typical reaction, so she's not overly thrown by the intensity — she has to hold back the _or not_ running through her mind.

"Now?" he asks, even gruffer than before. She places the thermos in front of him gently, grateful that, per usual, nobody is watching them — it takes only a glance from Warren and their table suddenly goes invisible.

He picks it up slowly — almost _gingerly_, she dares to think — and raises it to his lips.

"What is up, my bros?" Zack asks suddenly, and she jumps.

"Hey," she says, scooting over a bit. It's a habit she can't seem to kick, even though they literally have two entire tables to themselves.

"You seen Magenta?" Zack asks instead of replying.

"She's in the bathroom," Layla says. Although she is certainly not the most savvy at this sort of thing, Layla can add Zack's newfound interest in Magenta plus the upcoming Homecoming Dance together and realize that she might not be the only one here with a reluctant and dark-haired date. She likes Zack, she really does, but this is not exactly an appealing comparison, especially now that there are an unhealthy amount of chocolate milk cartons on his tray. Uneasy, she looks up.

And then she stops, because now she's the one staring at Warren. In the last couple seconds, her bottle has disappeared.

Magenta shows up less than ten seconds later, and Zack abruptly becomes fascinated in her music interests. Between the new mystery and this old flirting, she chooses to focus on the former with scrunched eyebrows.

Without even twitching, Warren bumps something against her shoe. Or he would, if she was wearing shoes with closed toes; instead, what really happens is he stubs her toes against something very dense and cold.

_Aha_.

She at least has a greater sense of subtlety than Zack does, and she restrains her reaction to just a hiss of pain beneath her breath because, well, because he just slammed hard metal against her bare feet, so she thinks that it's a warranted reaction. Taking the bottle back from beneath the table, she wonders if he actually had time to drink any of it.


	3. Never Turn Your Back On Open Flame

_**these next chapters will come, chronologically, in quick succession of each other. :) enjoy!**_

* * *

The weeks that follow Homecoming threaten to drown her in levels of frustration that she's never felt before — not even in the depths of the latest political sham. Although, actually, that's just what this is: politics.

There's all kind of talk floating around. There's talk about breaking up the Hero and Hero Support courses. Talk about putting Layla and her friends in the Hero class. Talk about putting just Layla in the Hero classes. About letting the whole thing blow over in the national and international communities. About awards, recognitions, plaques, trophies, dedications, speeches. Quotes, interviews. It all swims together in her head.

The only adult who treats her the same as before is Mr. Boy, so she starts hiding out in his classroom during lunch. When even that gets to be too much to handle, Layla just wanders the campus or tends to the gardens. Most of her friends are also feeling the pressure, and the stretches of time between bus rides are practically intolerable.

And the few days that they do spend in the cafeteria, fighting off so many looks and whispers and flat-out questionings, those are even worse now, because there is no Warren to help defend them.

His disappearance hurts. Will sits with them now, usually right at her side, which is exactly where he's belonged for more than half of their lives. And that's what she had wanted, all those weeks ago: for Warren to just magically disappear and for Will to come back.

But now, sitting at the Tough Guys and Tough Gals table feels just wrong without its original member and namesake.

Layla wonders if she should have taken those _be careful what you wish for _proverbs more carefully.

* * *

There's no school today because it's a scheduled teacher work day. Layla remembers those from middle school, but somehow she doubts that the usual break-room coffee-machine talk won't be of quite the same caliber. There's no doubt in Layla's mind that returning to school on Monday will be a nightmare after whatever conclusion the knuckle-brained staff will come to.

So she ditches all of her homework and her phone and heads downtown.

It's therapeutic, she's found lately, to place herself among this universe's muggles. No one calls after her with demands for a show or asks her weird things about plants or wants her to do anything but walk faster on crowded sidewalks. No one talks to her. There is only pavement and the weeds thriving in between, and trees that stretch for the sky with varying degrees of patience, and a wind that rustles her hair and leaves alike.

When she gets to the library this afternoon, she heads to the adult section. The kids section is all well and good, but there's a guest speaker today and she won't take up their space. On the other hand, staying far away from the teen section is a very purposeful decision indeed: she has plenty enough adventure in her life, thanks, and does not really feel like reading about someone else's save-the-world troubles.

Layla does not run her hands along the bookshelves or drink in the smell of ink and paper and plastic book jackets, does not admire the deceptive uniformity of each row. She just walks, appreciating nothing more than the swirls in the carpet pattern. Sometimes she notes particularly interesting titles, but she has no intention to ever pick them up. That's not what her library time is for; she comes here to do anything _except_ think.

Plus, she's not really that much interested in reading. She doesn't lose as many books as Zack does and she doesn't hate them as much as Magenta does, but she's certainly not the most avid book-lover she knows. No, that title belongs to someone else, not even to Ethan...

...but to the tall sophomore boy sitting twelve feet away beneath a window.

Layla ducks behind the closest shelf, her heart suddenly racing.

She comes to this neighborhood on purpose, so that she doesn't have to see anybody from school — but she supposes that might be _his_ reasoning, too. And it's not like she ever expected to see him at Paper Lantern, so maybe this is her fault for making bad assumptions.

Peeking through the gap between books, Layla observes the most avid reader she knows. This is a Warren she hasn't seen before, somewhere that's not quite the solemnity of school or the professional passivity of work. He hasn't seen her yet-

Oh, dear.

She swallows and steps around the bookshelf, feeling silly because as soon as she had conjured the thought, his head had moved up and pinned her right there with the same glare that used to startle off onlookers in the cafeteria. (But of course he doesn't show up anymore, and there is nothing between the small squad of freshmen and the entirety of Sky High's early lunch period.)

As she circles around with careful steps, the fierce glower dims somewhat and he blinks at her.

"What are you doing here?" he says, closing his book with one gloved hand.

"Getting a book," she replies, wishing she actually had one to make her falsehood seem more credible.

"The dance is over."

She flinches.

"I didn't know you were here," she says quickly, but it's like she's throwing the words into a void.

Their ill-fated agreement, otherwise known as More Proof That Layla Should Not Improvise, should have culminated in an awkward hour or so of not-dancing at a school function. They should have arrived together, been seen by Will, and parted ways without a second glance. And in all likelihood, they probably should never have exchanged a single word before, during, nor after the event in question. She certainly should not have kept thinking about Warren, kept worrying about him, kept wondering about him, after all this time.

Instead, she spent the weeks leading up to the dance learning Warren Peace. Whether or not she had realized it at the time, trust and hope and safety went into that agreement along with her embittered desperation, and it all rested with him. And then Homecoming was taken over by Royal Pain, and he saved her life over and over and over again in the span of a single night.

So Layla had started counting Warren Peace as one of her friends.

She should not have.

"Sorry," they say at the same time, and she just about falls over in surprise.

"What for?" she asks quietly, bewildered.

He visibly sighs before pulling his bag off the table and towards his side of the bench. Slowly, she sits across from him, half-expecting him to snarl at her for it.

But he doesn't.

"I wasn't expecting you to keep...conversing with me," Warren says. "Why?"

Layla has been bottling things up since the first day of high school. Now they are halfway through first semester and even though he doesn't reciprocate, she _trusts_ him. And she misses him. And she doesn't know why. So the words just start falling out:

"I haven't seen you in so long; I just wanted to know how you're doing. You're not as approachable at school. I know that's kind of the idea, but..." She looks at him. "...things change. Sometimes."

She clears her throat.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" she asks hesitantly, because in the silence of the library, even her quietest words seem to echo impossibly loudly in her ears. "There's a café thing downstairs." Calling the pastry and coffee stand a _café_ is remarkably generous, but the nearest real coffee shop is ten minutes away and there's no way he would agree.

After a bit, Warren nods and stands up and slides the book into his bag.

They walk quietly, their shoes barely scuffing against the tilted floor. His steps are so much longer than hers that she ends up walking faster than him in an effort to keep up with him.

She orders two hot beverages and he drops a folded five-dollar bill on the counter before she can even open her homemade duct-tape wallet.

"Thank you," she says, doing her best to hide her surprise.

"Between the two of us, Hippy, who has the real job?" And with that, Layla gives up on all her poor attempts to _pretend_ at anything and just breaks out a huge grin. This is familiar and good and an olive branch if she's ever heard one.

In a few minutes, they're right back where they started, only this time she is leaning in to the wafting steam and the quiet and Warren, rather than sitting so primly that her spine actually hurts. This time, she meets his eyes and can taste confidence sliding down her throat with the cinnamon.

"You should sit with us at lunch tomorrow," she tells him.

His lips tug one way and then the other.

It's a smile.

"You think."

"I do."

He hums, taking a long sip of coffee.

"Maybe."

* * *

He does.


	4. Sparks

_**cheers!**_

* * *

When Monday rolls around, she's out of her seat so much faster than usual, eyes already scanning the cafeteria from bench to bench. Sophomores tend to get to there before the freshmen — honestly, everybody gets everywhere before the freshmen do, but Layla thinks that that must be the same even in non-supered schools, too — especially the only one who matters in this moment.

In the short minute between her flying through the doors and her catching sight of him, she feels her heart sinks. It's alarming, how fast she recovers, though.

Hurrying over, Layla sits down across from him and tries not to be too excited. Her friends, thrown yet relieved at her newfound energy, were just on her shoes, and they'll be here in a moment.

"Hello," she says, finding herself out of breath. In reply, Warren reaches over and puts a paper bag in front of her. The rest of the group appears before she can ask him what's in it.

"What's your poison?" Magenta asks melodramatically, nodding at the bag. She and Layla and Will all saw _Breakfast Club _a few days ago, and their shapeshifting friend had embraced the stereotypical goth girl with more glee than resignation.

"I don't know," Layla admits, but thankfully the boys swing over and start talking at Warren so fast that the conversation allows her to slip the paper bag inside her backpack without being noticed. Warren doesn't really say anything through the lunch period, but since that includes his interactions with Will, she supposes that it could be better and it could be worse. But progress is progress, isn't it?

So she'll be happy with that.

* * *

It's only after she gets home that she's able to finally investigate the paper bag that's been burning a metaphorical hole through layers of fabric.

(She's very glad that it is indeed metaphorical.)

From the depths of the bag, she draws out a single thing: a squarish mesh bag with a string folded neatly around it.

Layla brings the teabag to her nose and closes her eyes, absorbing the scent with more than just her sense of smell. Chamomile.

She soaks it immediately, subconsciously encouraging the shreds of leaves to seep faster.

It is the calmest Monday she's had since Homecoming.


	5. Hearth and Home

_**hey, guys!**_

* * *

No matter how many strides the world and its occupants makes towards being a better place — no matter how super-powered — Layla doubts that Warren Peace will ever feel all that welcomed by the Stronghold house. It is with this gravely unfortunate truth that she immediately seconds Zack's offer to host movie night.

Even with all of them crammed into the doorway space now, she still thinks that it was a great decision. Neutral. Cheerful.

Layla finds herself standing beside Warren as Will shuffles out of his jacket and she out of her shoes. The taller boy hands her a squat styrofoam take-away cup. Curiosity, thankfully, takes over the look of disdain on her face — although it holds onto heat wonderfully well, which is proven immediately as warmth spreads through her palm, styrofoam is really very terrible for the environment — as she brings it to her nose.

"What's that?" Will asks. Warren eyes him before turning away, but Layla just smiles, murmuring under her breath to Will about a returned favor or something like that. She's not super focused on the excuse; her senses are all gloriously engaged in the herbal goodness.

An hour later finds them still crammed together, only now sitting all over a lone couch. Arguably there is much more space here, and yet neither Warren nor Magenta get much farther than a foot away from the rest of the tangle of teenage limbs haphazardly making room where there is none.

_The Breakfast Club _is supposed to be this all-reaching film that connects with everybody and anybody, but Layla's never really _felt _for any of the characters in it. Can she see some awkwardly specific parallels between the onscreen group and her friends? Well, yes, so she elects to ignore the commercialized reality and embrace even more wholly the camaraderie in the here and now.


	6. Truth Burns Bright

_**ah, high school drama.**_

* * *

This place — this overly enfranchised coffeeshop chain — isn't Jasmine Dragon, but it'll have to do. She's never bought anything from here and she doesn't intend to; she even brought her own teas, which she knows is a bit of a faux pas, but so far nobody has noticed. Today, all she needs from this place is a neutral meeting location, and nothing more.

She's already seated and tempted to pull out her phone when Warren finally walks in, nodding at her from across the shop as he weaves patiently through the crowds. As intimidating as she used to find him when they first met, he's got way more manners than the rest of her friends combined, herself included.

Not that that's difficult.

They exchange pleasantries and occasionally drinks for the first couple minutes, but that dies away fast because they see each other every day anyway. The Tough table has increased greatly in population over the last year and a half, but she still does her best to make time alone with Warren, who never seems more calm than when there is no audience to make incorrect judgement calls.

She could use some of his calm; lunch is about to get a little awkward in the next couple days, and she kind of just wants someone to be firmly on her side. Warren, Layla is confident, is still now more on her side than Will's, whether or not they're prime guitar buddies.

"Talk already," Warren says, cutting through her verbal and mental train of stalling, so Layla takes a deep breath and spills, because he's always had that effect on her.

She's just given her on-again, off-again relationship with Will the death knell, and though she hasn't actually told anyone, she can almost guarantee that Will's told Zack who's told Magenta who's told Ethan.

So.

"...and anyway, I don't like being in a relationship. It was everything I thought it would be, but I never actually...enjoyed it. Which sounds really bad. But it's true. I think I just like Will. Or love him. Or whatever. Either way, it just- it's not sustainable, you know? And the _pressure_. It wasn't worth it. I just want to be Layla."

And that's the end of it. It feels good to get out after months of constant deliberation, although she feels kind of silly because Warren Peace, of all people, most likely understands all too well the unfairness of being linked to someone else's story.

But he only nods, and she smiles at him for it before carding a hand through her auburn hair.

"Thanks for being here," she sighs, meaning more than just the coffees shop.

"I hate it here," he says, meaning just that. "Let's go."

"Where to?" she laughs, already reaching for her bag.

"Park." It's not even a question, and her smile widens with delight. There's no place she would rather be than a big stretch of _green_ and he knows it.


	7. Sun-Kissed

**_thanks for taking this journey with me, folks!_**

* * *

Layla hums to herself, twirling on socked feet as she cleans up her apartment. There are couch pillows to be fluffed and dishes in the drying rack and dust bunnies to be chased, but there had also been a kitten to lower from a tree and travelers to save from a snapping rope bridge and a recently-doused forest fire to check up on, so she prioritizes. Plus, she hasn't had anyone over in so long that her neighbors have shifted from calling her The Plant _Girl_ to The Plant _Woman_, and she fears for the day that they add the word _Old_.

As she skates across her wooden floors, she feels life pulse around her and it makes her happy. There are pots hanging from the ceiling overhead, planter boxes lining up her window ledges, and ivy curling on the picture frame wall above her couch.

It's quite possibly her favorite part of the apartment, the series of framed newspaper collages and old photographs nearly flooding over the edges.

Then comes a knock on her door and she spins away, seeking out the clock hanging behind her. That doesn't help any; it's a weird day for visitors and an even weirder time. But she makes her way to the front anyway. Just last weekend, the little kids across the hall came over selling Girl Scout cookies, and she would hate for her title to become The _Mean _Plant Woman.

She draws open the door and almost closes it again out of pure surprise.

"Wow," she says intelligently, and her visitor gives her this little grin: first one side of his mouth twitches, then the other, and the familiarity of it turns her shock into delight.

"Mm," he replies, and the door falls open even more as he enters, each forward step of his matching a backward one of hers.

The lock clicks.

He looks out of place beside her mirror — intricate pink and white jasmine flowers twine gently with the wooden frame — beside her _apartment_, beside her, but she thinks she could grow used to seeing him here.

"It's been a while," she acknowledges finally.

"Been busy," he says, slipping both hands into the pockets of his dark motorcycle jacket.

"Too busy saving the day to come visit an old friend?" she asks. It's hypocritical, she knows, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Not that busy." They just look at each other for a moment — his eyes have not changed one iota — and then she shakes herself free.

"Come in, then," she says. "You want something to drink? I have-"

"Tea," he guesses sardonically, and she has to laugh.

"For you? Always."


End file.
